John Galsworthy
Late-299 (2)

1 §

In the withdrawing-room of a small house near Kew Gardens, Mrs. Philip Raider was gazing at a piece of pinkish paper in her hand, as if it had been one of those spiders of which she had so constitutional a horror. Opposite her chair her son had risen; and against the wall her daughter had ceased suddenly to play Brahms’ Variations on a theme by Haydn.

“He says to-night!”

The girl dropped her hands from the keys. “To-night? I thought it was next month. Just like father—without a word of warning!”

The son mechanically took out his pipe, and began polishing its bowl. He was fresh-faced, fair, with a small head.

“Why didn’t he tell us to meet him in London? He must know we’ve got to come to an arrangement.”

The daughter, too, got up, leaning against the piano—a slight figure, with bushy, dark, short hair.

“What are we to do, Mother?”

“Jack must go round, and put Mabel and Roderick off for this evening.”

“Yes, and what then, if he’s going to stay here? Does he know that I’m engaged, and Beryl too?”

“1 think I told him in my last letter.”

“What are you going to do, Mother?”

“It’s come so suddenly—I don’t know.”

“It’s indecent!” said the boy violently.

His sister picked up the dropped telegram. “‘Earl’s Court, five four.’ He may be here any minute. Jack, do hurry up! Doesn’t he realise that nobody knows, down here?”

Mrs. Raider turned to the fire.

“Your father will only have realised his own feelings.”

“Well, he’s got to begin with others. I’ll have to make him—!”

“Dr. Raider, ma’am.”

Late—299 stood, smiling, in front of the door which the maid had closed behind him.

“Well, Bertha! Ah, Beryl! Well, Jack!”

His daughter alone replied.

“Well, Father, you might have let us know beforehand!”

Late—299 looked from one face to the other.

“Never tell children they’re going to have a powder. How are you all?”

“Perfectly well, thank you. How are you?”

“Never better. Healthy life—prison!”

As if walking in her sleep Mrs. Raider came across the room. She put out her hand with a groping gesture. Late—299 did not take it.

“Rather nice here,” he said. “Can I have a wash?”

“Jack, show your father the lavatory.”

“The bathroom, please.”

The son crossed from the window, glanced at his father’s smiling face, and led the way.

Mrs. Raider, thin, pale, dark, spoke first. “Poor Philip!”

“Oh, Mother! It’s impossible to pity father; it always was. Except for his moustache being gone, I don’t see much change anyway. It’s you I pity. He simply can’t stay here. Why, everybody thinks you’re a widow.”

“People generally know more than they seem to, Beryl.”

“Nobody’s ever given us a hint. Why couldn’t he have consulted us?”

“We must think of him.”

“He didn’t think of us when he did that horrible thing. And it was so gratuitous, unless—! Mother, sometimes I’ve thought he had to do it; that he was her—her lover as well as her doctor!”

Mrs. Raider shook her head.

“If it had been that, he’d have told me. Your father is always justified in his own eyes.”

“What am I to do about Roddy?”

“We must just wait.”

“Here’s Jack! Well?”

“He’s having a bath as hot as he can bear it. All he said was: ‘This is the first thing you do when you go in, and the first thing you do when you come out—symmetrical, isn’t it?’ I’ve got to take him a cup of coffee. It’s really too thick! The servants can’t help knowing that a Dr. Raider who gets into the bath the moment he comes to call must be our father.”

“It’s comic.”

“Is it? He doesn’t show a sign of shame. He’ll call it from the house-tops. I thought, of course, he’d go abroad.”

“We all thought that.”

“If he were down in the mouth, one could feel sorry for him. But he looks as pleased as Punch with himself. And it’s such a beastly sort of crime—how am I to put it to Mabel? If I just say he’s been in prison, she’ll think it’s something even worse. Mother, do insist on his going at once. We can tell the servants he’s an uncle—who’s been in contact with smallpox.”

“You take him the coffee, Mother—oh, you can’t, if he’s to be an uncle! Jack, tell him nobody here knows, and mother can’t stand it; and hurry up! It’s half-past six now.”

The son passed his fingers through his brushed-back hair; his face looked youthful, desperate.

“Shall I?”

Mrs. Raider nodded.

“Tell him, Jack, that I’ll come out to him, wherever he likes to go; that I always expected him to arrange that; that this is—too difficult—” She covered her lips with her hand.

“All right, Mother! I’ll jolly well make him understand. But don’t launch out about it to the servants yet. Suppose it’s we who have to go? It’s his house!”

“Is it, Mother?”

“Yes; I bought it with his money under the power of attorney he left.”

“Oh, isn’t that dreadful?”

“It’s all dreadful, but we must consider him.”

The girl shook back her fuzzy hair.

“It does seem rather a case of ‘coldly received.’ But father’s always been shut up in himself. He can’t expect us suddenly to slobber over him. If he’s had a horrible time, so have we.”

“Well, shall I go?”

“Yes, take him the coffee. Be quick, my dear boy; and be nice to him!”

The son said with youthful grimness: “Oh, I’ll be nice!” and went.

“Mother, don’t look like that!”

“How should I look? Smiling?”

“No, don’t smile—it’s like him. Cry it off your chest.”

2 §

Late—299 was sitting in the bath, smiling through steam and the smoke of his cigarette at his big toe. Raised just above the level of the water, it had a nail blackened by some weight that had dropped on it. He took the coffee-cup from his son’s hand.

“For two years and nine months I’ve been looking forward to this—but it beats the band, Jack.”

“Father—I—ought—”

“Good coffee, tobacco, hot water—greatest blessings earth affords. Half an hour in here, and—spotless, body and soul!”

“Father—!”

“Yes; is there anything you want to add?”

“We’ve—we’ve been here two years.”

“Not so long as I was there. Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t. Are you studying medicine?”

“No. Botany.”

“Good. You won’t have to do with human beings.”

“I’ve got the promise of a job in the Gardens here at the beginning of next year. And I’m—I’m engaged.”

“Excellent. I believe in marrying young.”

“Beryl’s engaged too.”

“Your mother isn’t, by any chance?”

“Father!”

“My dear fellow, one expects to have been dropped. Why suppose one’s family superior to other people’s? Pas si bête!”

Gazing at that smiling face where prison pallor was yielding to the heat, above the neck whose sinews seemed unnaturally sharp and visible, the boy felt a spasm of remorse.

“We’ve never had a proper chance to tell you how frightfully sorry we’ve been for you. Only, we don’t understand even now why you did such a thing.”

“Should I have done it if I’d thought it would have been spotted? A woman going to the devil; a small risk to oneself—and there we were! Never save anyone, at risk to yourself, Jack. I’m sure you agree.”

The boy’s face went very red. How could he ever get out what he had come to say?

“I have no intention of putting my tail between my legs. D’you mind taking this cup?”

“Will you have another, Father?”

“No, thanks. What time do you dine?”

“Half-past seven.”

“You might lend me a razor. I was shaved this morning with a sort of billhook.”

“I’ll get you one.”

Away from that smiling stranger in the bath, the boy shook himself. He must and would speak out!

When he came back with the shaving gear, his father was lying flat, deeply immersed, with closed eyes. And setting his back against the door, he blurted out: “Nobody knows down here. They think mother’s a widow.”

The eyes opened, the smile resumed control.

“Do you really believe that?”

“I do; I know that Mabel—the girl I’m engaged to—has no suspicion. She’s coming to dinner; so is Roddy Blades—Beryl’s fiancé.”

“Mabel, and Roddy Blades—glad to know their names. Give me that big towel, there’s a good fellow. I’m going to wash my head.”

Handing him the towel, the boy turned. But at the door he stopped. “Father—!”

“Quite. These natural relationships are fixed, beyond redemption.”

The boy turned and fled.

His mother and sister stood waiting at the foot of the stairs.

“Well?”

“It’s no good. I simply can’t tell him we want him to go.”

“No, my dear. I understand.”

“Oh! but, Mother—! Jack, you must.”

“I can’t; I’m going to put them off.” Seizing his hat, he ran. He ran among small houses in the evening mist, trying to invent. At the corner of the long row of little villas he rang a bell.

“Can I see Miss Mabel?”

“She’s dressing, sir. Will you come in?”

“No. I’ll wait here.”

In the small dark porch he tried to rehearse himself. ‘Awfully sorry! Somebody had come—unexpectedly—on business!’ Yes! On what business?

“Hallo, Jack!”

A vision in the doorway—a fair head, a rosy, round, blue-eyed face above a swansdown collar.

“Look here, darling—shut the door.”

“Why? What is it? Anything up?”

“Yes; something pretty badly up. You can’t come to-night, Mabel.”

“Don’t squeeze so hard! Why not?”

“Oh! well—there—there’s a reason.”

“I know. Your father’s come out!”

“What? How—?”

“But of course. We all know about him. We must be awfully nice to him.”

“D’you mean to say that Roddy and everybody—We thought nobody knew.”

“Bless you, yes! Some people feel one way and some the other. I feel the other.”

“Do you know what he did?”

“Yes; I got hold of the paper. I read the whole trial.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Why didn’t you?”

“It was too beastly. Well?”

“I think it was a shame.”

“But you can’t have that sort of thing allowed.”

“Why not?”

“Where would the population be?”

“Well, we’re over-populated. Everybody says so.”

“That’s quite another thing. This is the Law.”

“Look here! If you want to argue, come in. It’s jolly cold.”

“I don’t want to argue; I must go and tell Roddy. It’s an awful relief about you, darling. Only—you don’t know my father.”

“Then I can’t come?”

“Not to-night. Mother—”

“Yes; I expect she’s frightfully glad.”

“Oh! yes—yes! She—yes!”

“Well, good-night. And look here—you go back. I’ll tell Roddy. No! Don’t rumple me!”

Running back between small houses, the boy thought: ‘Good God! How queer! How upside-down! She—she—! It’s awfully modern!’

3 §

Late—299 sat in the firelight, a glass beside him, a cigarette between his smiling lips. The cinders clicked, a clock struck. Eleven! He pitched the stump of his cigarette into the ashes, stretched himself, and rose. He went upstairs and opened the first door. The room was dark. A faint voice said:

“Philip?”

“Yes.”

The light sprang out under his thumb. His wife was sitting up in bed, her face pale, her lips moving:

“To-night—must you?”

Late—299 moved to the foot of the bed; his lips still smiled, his eyes gazed hungrily.

“Not at all. We learn to contain ourselves in prison. No vile contacts? Quite so. Goodnight!”

The voice from the bed said faintly:

“Philip, I’m so sorry; it’s the suddenness—I’m—”

“Don’t mention it.” The light failed under his thumb. The door fell to...

Three people lay awake, one sleeping. The three who lay awake were thinking: ‘If only he made one feel sorry for him! If only one could love him! His self-control is forbidding—it’s not human! He ought to want our sympathy. He ought to sympathise with us. He doesn’t seem to feel—for himself, for us, for anything. And tomorrow—what will happen? Is life possible here, now? Can we stand him in the house, about the place? He’s frightening!’

The sleeper, in his first bed of one thousand and one nights, lay, his eyes pinched up between brows and bony cheeks of a face as if carved from ivory, and his lips still smiling at the softness under him.

Past dawn the wakeful slept, the sleeper awoke. His eyes sought the familiar little pyramid of gear on the shelf in the corner, the bright tins below, the round porthole, the line of distemper running along the walls, the closed and solid smallness of a cell. And the blood left his heart. They weren’t there! His whole being struggled with such unreality. He was in a room staring at light coming through chintz curtains. His arms were not naked. This was a sheet! For a moment he shivered, uncertain of everything; then lay back, smiling at a papered ceiling.